The Case of the Gold Foil Murders
by SoulResin
Summary: Bodies have been turning up in various places in London with mysterious balled-up gold foil in their mouths, along with threats to the world's only consulting detective. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson must unravel the mystery of a serial killer mastermind before the danger reaches 221B Baker Street. Rating for language and violence; possible trigger warning in later chapters.


**The Mystery of the Gold Foil Murders**

A _Sherlock_ fanfiction

By SoulResin

A/N: Thanks for reading my first FanFiction since 2003! Thanks to C.T. Moon for reading this!

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_Prologue_

"Dr. Watson, there's someone at reception for you," a nurse said as she poked her head into the operating room. John had freshly scrubbed his hands to prepare for surgery, and they were raised to avoid contamination. One hand was half-inserted into his glove.

He, and the nurse assisting to glove him, froze, blinked; then John's posture slumped in aggravation. He huffed quietly through his gritted teeth the name of the only person who would be so self-absorbed to interrupt a surgery. "Sher_lock_."

In fairness, he wasn't even close to making the first incision—_though it was decidedly unfair to the poor lad on the operating table, waiting for an enflamed appendix to be removed_. John hoisted his head as shamelessly as he could manage, even though he could feel the tips of his ears burning as all eyes in the room landed on him.

"Yes. Thank you," he shrilled.

He could imagine what everyone in the room was thinking (though, maybe not as accurate a deduction as you-know-who could).

_Crazy Watson's crazy flatmate is at it again, I reckon_. He could already imagine what his colleagues would say. _Pity, that. Sherlock Holmes will run that poor man into the ground_.

Watson bristled at his own imagination, but gave a grimace, which he hoped resembled a smile, to his assistant, who tried valiantly not to look unimpressed.

The nurse at the door nodded. "I'll page the doctor on call, yeah? I'm sure they'll take over."

"Y-yes. Yes, good. That would be—" brief pause, exhale, "good."

_Not again. Not good. This entire thing is the _opposite_ of good. If this kept up, there's nothing stopping the hospital from doing a little fat trimming, that is to say, fire a certain doctor whose hobbies included solving crimes and keeping company with a sociopath._

John exited the scrubbing room with all the dignity he could muster and pinched the bridge of his nose, pausing outside the door in his gown. As he was about to make his way to the locker room, he was suddenly assaulted, a phone shoved into his hands and his coat (probably meant to be thrown over his shoulder) engulfed his head.

"What—!"

"I need you to send a text for me." That was the rumbling, unmistakable baritone, which could _only_ belong to one person[CS1] . "Are you ready?"

"No," John hissed. "I was in the middle of surgery—" He fought his way out of the coat now wrapped around his head.

"I'm sure you were," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. "You were taking too long. Now, text."

"These are—" John briefly took inventory of the things that Sherlock had handed him. Jacket, hat, wallet, phone… his emergency change of underwear. "These are my things. Sherlock, did you break into my locker?" He didn't have to dig deep for the indignity rising in his register.

"_Yes_, now, _please_, Dr. Watson," the tall, thin consulting detective said, obviously annoyed. "Send this text for me."

Fumbling, John flipped open his phone. "Give me a mo—" he shot a glare up from the screen, his face pinched. He thumbed through the menu deliberately slowly. "Just wait."

"I had waited long enough in the lobby for you, so I liberated your things in order for this operation to run more smoothly. The very least you could do is send a bloody text—" pause, frown, "Oh, give me that," Sherlock bellowed, watching John slowly flick through screens on his mobile. "Asinine luddite."

John was frozen, his mouth a grim line and brow furrowed. He watched Sherlock swiftly tap the message into the mobile.

_Body found in river was the victim of a serial killer; more details forthcoming. SH_

Blip. Sent. To the Detective Inspector, no doubt.

"So, you came here so you could send a text. That's what you think you can do, is it?"

Sherlock handed the stubby ex-military doctor his phone and examined his surroundings. _Hospital corridor. Midday. Empty. Surgery; non-life-threatening since John could step out. Very likely tonsillitis or appendicitis._ "Yes."

"Brilliant. Bloody brilliant. You know, I'll have to scrub up again," John said, lifting his eyes to Heaven, offering a silent prayer for some fortitude. "And _you_—I can't have _you_ walking up here like you're the bloody _King_—"

"Are you going to lecture me or listen to what I have to say?" Sherlock said evenly, his eyes suddenly resting on John, who withered. John let out a breath he had been holding through his nose, feeling a not just a little bit like a cornered bull. A moment passed between the short and the tall man until Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

"Well, _get on with it_," John insisted impatiently, crossing his arms and cocking his head petulantly.

"I am in the thick of a murder investigation which is the work of a serial killer mastermind," Sherlock said levelly. "And I really cannot do it alone."

"And _I_ am in _the thick of a surgery_," John hissed, but his resolve shriveled when Sherlock gave him the once-over. John was obviously caught in his lie.

"Going by the cornstarch residue, I suppose you were operating with only one hand gloved?" he asked, raising an impious eyebrow.

John grit his teeth and seethed, "Incredible. As always." He tore off the surgery costume and shrugged his coat on without another word. A grin surfaced on Sherlock Holmes's face. He quickly wrapped his scarf around his neck.

"Excellent. The chase is on!" With that smile, the tension in John's shoulders lifted. Watson steeled himself, though—he needed to at least act indignant for a while before he could have some fun. He knew that it would not, of course, teach Sherlock any kind of lesson, anyway. _Not like you can teach him anything he doesn't already know._

Stoutly and most assuredly _not_ enjoying it in the _least_ bit, Dr. Watson sulked after Sherlock, flipping up the collar of his coat as he passed his colleagues, who gazed on. What was their problem, anyway? This was his job. To be the consulting detective's consultant.

His other job, anyway.

"John…" Sherlock muttered, averting his eyes from his much shorter companion as they stepped outside. _His version of subtlety, obviously_.

"What?" Watson snapped.

"Your shoes."

John groaned and tore the bright blue hospital booties off of his shoes.


End file.
